So here I am in France, reading about how unhappy, anxious, fearful, depressed, uneasy and stressed the British have become. A Mental Health Foundation study shows that the nation suffers all those ailments, far more than it used to. That's hardly surprising. Predictably, the financial crisis gets much of the blame, with fear of crime also putting in a strong performance.
A couple of years ago I wrote about the sadness then enveloping France - they described it as morosité, moroseness - for no single dominant reason other than a vague feeling that the country had lost its way. I compared it with the relatively positive mood of the British. Strangely, now that the French do have something tangible to worry about, I have found them less morose. The mood here is not as dark as that I'm finding in Britain. The tables have been turned. Partly, it may be that the French have in fact got less to worry about in terms of the recession, but I think I see another factor.
The newspapers, television and radio here are not compulsively bombarding the population with bad news, and promising even worse for the future. I have seen and heard whole news bulletins go by without any bleak item about financial gloom. There is no Peston-like doom merchant here. I have had long conversations with friends without mention of money and associated subjects - an experience I have yet to enjoy in London. It's this obsessional need of the British media to feed us scary stories - whether about the economy, crime or terrorism - that has significantly contributed to our growing fears and anxieties, a conclusion that the Mental Health Foundation survey confirms. I'm not saying that the French don't do anxiety and stress. They do, of course. It's just that they seem to be dealing with these dreadful times with more sense, panache and fortitude than the British can muster.
• One of the disadvantages of only coming to France sporadically is that I don't get to see enough of Plus Belle la Vie, by far the country's favourite soap (it has 6 million viewers), which is, moreover, set in Marseille, in a quarter called Le Mistral, which does not exist. That has not stopped fans visiting from the rest of France demanding to be given a tour of the place. Like EastEnders, which also has a bar (or rather pub) as its centre of gravity, Plus Belle has overheated storylines, a constant stream of unlikely relationships that end badly, and the occasional foray into real issues - recently, poisoned water has made many of the Mistral residents ill.
But the most striking aspects of Plus Belle la Vie are the accents of its actors. Most of the characters are meant to be locals. They ought to be speaking in the distinctive Marseillais accent. They don't. They all converse in a sort of bland, generic Parisian. The reason, I'm told, is that the rest of France wouldn't understand them if they spoke accurately. Wouldn't it have been more convincing, though? Sure - but look at the viewing figures.
• There's a new irritant in French restaurants. I first became aware of it about three years ago, here in Provence. More recently, in Paris as well as here, it has become annoyingly common. It is the French ultra-summary of the polite post-prandial question: did you enjoy your meal? The waiters now ask "Ç'a été?" - "It was?", the "it" being your meal, or the particular dish just consumed. The question mark can be optional - "Ç'a été" is often stated not as a genuine query, but with a tone of challenge, daring the diner to give the wrong response.
The correct answer, delivered equally curtly, is "Bon" or "Très bon". The problem is that anyone unused to this quickfire shorthand - and that includes many occasional French diners as well as visitors - have no idea what's going on, and stare at the waiter in incomprehension, whereupon he or she either asks the full question, or - if the diner is foreign - utters a general, "You like?"
• Since Sunday, Marseille has been basking in what Le Monde described as the "intoxication of leadership". Our football team, Olympique Marseille - OM - reached the top of the league. There are still many matches to go, but people here are talking almost as if final victory is assured. For me, the jubilation has been mixed with disappointment. There has been an unfortunate development in my erratic attempt to discover whether, in supporting sporting teams, my allegiance is English or French.
I have in the past wavered, for no convincing or explicable reasons. But a couple of years back, in this column, I set out a fanciful scenario in which the two football teams I've supported since childhood, OM and Aston Villa, would both qualify for the Champions League, and be drawn to play against each other. Then I would know where I stood, even if the realisation only came to me at the last second, when the teams emerged on to the pitch.
I never really expected the game to take place. But this season, miraculously, both teams were in a position to qualify. Alas, this last weekend has destroyed the fantasy. Marseille fulfilled their part of the bargain, but Villa, playing badly of late and neglectful of my needs, cannot now realistically secure the necessary fourth place in the English Premier League. My conflict of identity is left unresolved.
• This week Marcel spent the entire week in the countryside. He has seen nothing, watched nothing, been to nothing, and read only newspapers. But he has walked, talked and eaten.
